The Photographer
by trustno1-1987
Summary: I’m pretty sure that was Monroe slyly pulling the New Yorker through a door marked ‘No Exit’, in large green letters. Oneshot DL


**Title: The Photographer**

**Author: badwolf, trustno-1-987**

**Rating: K+**

**Pairing: Danny/Lindsay**

**Spoilers: Post-ep for Sleight Out of Hand, so up to there. **

**Disclaimer: It's just not funny how much I don't own them.

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I've barely been on the job two minutes and already I get sent to the city courthouse to photograph the outcome of the Cadence trial – one of the most horrific, bloody crimes the community's known.

I'm not quite used to the 'shove your way to the front, no-one gets in the way of _my_ career' aspect of this job, and I hover at the back of the crowd, attempting to snap a few shots of Cadence being escorted from the courtroom. I'm not arrogant enough to think my boss will be jumping up and down, offering me a more liveable wage, after seeing these pics though…

Fumbling with the straps of the camera – my pride and joy – and starting for the entrance to hopefully get a better shot from the front of the courthouse, I'm suddenly jostled by the seasoned reporters and photographers surging forwards, amid cries of 'Miss Monroe!'. And not five seconds later, I'm nearly knocked over by a well-built, handsome man in a leather jacket, who has Miss Monroe by the hand and is hurrying them through the crowd. Occasionally, he tosses a 'no comment' over his shoulder, in such a stereotypical New York accent I almost laugh. Lindsay Monroe, who I've only ever seen photos of, is smiling and looking slightly bewildered, but not stopping for reporters and allowing the New Yorker – I assume he is her boyfriend from home from the glances she keeps shooting his way – to lead her out.

Knowing I'm not going to get close enough now to get a decent picture (my chance at fame is going to have to wait a little longer, as is my TV that needs fixing), I hang back to secure my camera in its case (which, incidentally, cost almost as much as the damn TV).

Although…

I'm pretty sure that was Monroe slyly pulling the New Yorker through a door marked 'No Exit', in large green letters. I glance around. No-one else seems to have seen the hasty exit of the star witness. Maybe I'll get a good shot after all.

No alarms sound, and no guards come running as I push the metal door open and step into the cold, bright spring day. Blinking a couple of times whilst my eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight, I start to follow the footsteps and muffled laughter I hear disappearing around the back of the small courthouse. There's a little park here – a winding path; a bench; small trees and flowers, just beginning to bloom – and this is where Lindsay Monroe is leading (well, dragging really) the New Yorker. Strangely, he keeps saying 'Montana', as though it will get her attention, and I can hear the smile in his voice, even though I'm watching them from an angle, and can only see their sides.

Finally, she looks back over her shoulder at him, smiling widely and gazing up at him. They're under a small tree that is just beginning to grow delicate green leaves, diffusing the sunlight and painting them in dappled yellows. Having only seen photos of a scared 16-year-old Lindsay, and a few of the past week, where she looks as though she has the weight of the world on her shoulders, I'm struck by how attractive she looks when she smiles like that.

Apparently I'm not the only one. The New Yorker stops dead, pulling Monroe to a stop in front of him as they're still holding hands, and says equally abruptly but emphatically: 'God, you look gorgeous.'

They both look surprised at those words, maybe the guy more than Monroe, making me wonder if they are actually boyfriend and girlfriend, and _I'm_ surprised by just how much emotion he managed to put into those four, simple words. Monroe, for her part, doesn't look shocked for long, and cocks her head quizzically, biting her lip to hide a smile and making her look, in my opinion, even more beautiful.

'I mean… you just… you look so _happy_… not that you weren't before, but… I'm… and I haven't seen you for ages, y'know…' he stutters, looking both nervous and excited. Miss Monroe, who is still smiling that special smile women have – that innocent, sexy, secretive smile – runs her free hand up his right arm to rest on his shoulder, bringing them subtly closer to each other.

'I missed you too, Cowboy,' she whispers, before reaching up and placing a chaste kiss on his lips. Then another. And another.

By the fourth, his free arm has snaked around her waist, pulling her flush with his body, and her hand is behind his neck.

By the fifth, I had the perfect shot of the couple celebrating the verdict beneath spring blossoms.

By the sixth less-than-chaste kiss, I decided to leave them celebrating in peace.

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_AN: I wrote this about a month ago; don't know why, it just popped into my head. I was debating whether or not to post this and the almost-companion 'The Cabbie' (/shameless self-promotion), but then I decided 'what the hell', and here it is. _


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